Darkness Of A Dream
by Savvy Rum Drinker
Summary: Frederick didn't die at the end of the movie, but has fallen into a dark world of depression and darkness. Can he be saved before he tries to take his life. . .again? Caution drug use and minor language. If you've seen the movie, you'll not be offended by


Hey! Please excuse any spelling mistakes, I'm crap at spelling and my computer dosn't have a spell checking program. Use an online one you say? Well, I can't. My computer has a problem with uploading and downloading files, but thankfully allows me to post my stories on Fanfiction!

Anyways, this is my first attempt at writing a From Hell fic (go me), so please excuse it's. . .blandness. I don't know. . .I think It's alright, but I'll let you guys decide! Us From Hell fiction writers need to band together and write more stories and make a jolly website! There are hardly any FH fics out there! COME ON GUYS, GET WRITING!

Also I would like to say congrats to all you FH writers. It's hard to write fics on historical events and real life goings ons, and such. WELL DONE! Keep it up!

Ack, I sould shove a disclaimer in here. . .I don't own From Hell or anything to do with it (apart from a DVD and a poster), and I certainly don't own Jack the Ripper, nor Frederick Abberline (damn it!). I'd love to own Johnny Depp, but he's already been claimed by bloody Vanessa. I hate her.

ATTENTION: This fic contains drug use and some bad language (no I'm not talking about my spelling!). If you don't like this kind ot thing, then please, read someone elses story.

A/N: Fred didn't die...

It was early one dreary London evening as police Seargent Peter Godley briskly walked along the cobblestone street, his mind set on a re-occurring task; finding Frederick. Peter had lost count of the number of times his young friend had gone missing and had turned up in one of the many opium dens around the city, and frankly he was sick of it.

Inspector Frederick Abberline, although out-ranked Peter, was young enough to be his son and after the death of own son, James Godley, he had taken the young man under his wing, Fred was, after all, alone in the world. His parents, Elizabeth and John Abberline, had been killed in a house fire when Fred was only seven years old. It had a devastating effect on his view of life. He became a drug addict to try and forget the unfairness of everything. He was only seventeen at the time.

It was only for the short time Fred was married to Victoria that he gave up drugs. He had finally found happiness. But as fate would have it, he was soon alone again. His beautiful wife died giving birth to their stillborn son. Peter remembered that day. It was like a nightmare. He remembered putting an arm around Fred's shoulders and asking;

_"Do you want to name your son?"_

Fred had burst into tears, it was the first time he had cried during the ordeal. But name him he did through the sobbing; Peter, after his best friend. Peter had been so touched that he had gathered Fred up into a tight embrace and together, they had cried until no more tears could flow.

Pulling his coat tightly around himself to ward off the nasty chill, Peter crossed the empty street, save for one horse and carriage waiting outside a house, and proceeded up the stairs to the 'Dragon', grabbing the door knob he tried to open the door, but found it locked. After the Ripper case, Peter didn't blame people locking their doors, even if it were a 'business' establishment such as this. People were cautious and suspicious of everything and everyone these days.

Knocking loudly, he waited for an answer.

Nothing.

Frowning, he walked over to the boarded up window and peered through a gap. Seeing the light of the kerosene lamps beyond, he returned to the door and knocked harder.

" It's the police, open the door." He demanded.

The sound of footsteps and a voice distinctly not English, drew near, then the latch on the door was removed and it slowly opened, only a crack. Two dark eyes peered out.

"I help you, Sir?" The heavily accented voice asked.

"Yes, let me in. I'm looking for someone." He replied, trying to push the door open. The Chinese man held it tightly.

"Who Sir?"

"You know who." He said irritably.

"Frederick?"

"Well done, Emperor." He said sarcastically. "Where is he?"

Begrudgingly, the door opened fully, allowing Peter to enter the dingy, smoke filled building, before it closed behind him and the latch slid back into place.

"Please, with me." The little Chinese man said.

He led Peter through the first room, filled with drugged people strewen out all over the place, before coming to a staircase that went downstairs. Stopping in his tracks, the Chinese man pointed down the stairs.

"He down there. Please don't bother other guests. They pay good money." He told him.

Rolling his eyes at him, Peter pushed past him and swiftly desended the stairs. Stopping at the bottom he waited for his eyes to become adjusted to the dim light, as he glanced around. Seeing Fred's navy blue jacket slung carelessly over the back of a near by chair, he walked over to the figure lying on the bed, before pausing, looking down at the him with pity.

He sighed. "Come on, Frederick." He said, leaning down to give him a shake. The lack of any response from the young man, made him frown. Sitting down beside him on the bed, he tried again.

"Fred? Frederick, wake up son." Peter said urgently, shaking him more roughly. Again, there was no sign of acknowledgement.

Grabbing Fred's hand, he put two fingers to the inside of his wrist. He could feel his heart beat, slow and fragile, unalike to his own, now eratic, one. Franticly looking around for some un-drugged person to help him, Peter began to panic. Not knowing what else to do, he got to his feet and bent back down, lifting Fred's unconscience form into his arms and quickly set off up the stairs, and back through the mass of bodies to the door. Thankfully 'Emperor' had enough brains to open the door for him, other wise he thought he would have stopped to throttle him.

Stepping out into the cold night, Peter glanced down at Fred, who was only dressed in a thin white shirt and vest.

_'He must be cold.' _He thought. No, no time to worry over things like that. There was something seriously wrong with Fred and he needed to get him to the hospital.

Looking around the silent street, he tried to find someone to help and noticed the horse and carriage was still waiting outside the house. Jogging across the road he called out to the driver, who looked up from whatever book he was reading, by the light of the carriage lamp.

"Yes?" The driver asked, eyeing them curiously.

"I need you to take us to the The Royal London Hospital, right away." Peter said.

"I'm sorry, Sir. I'm waiting for someone. You'll have to ask someone else."

"There is no one else, you arse! Are you deaf? I need to get him to the hospital!" He practically yelled.

"Calm down Sir." The man began.

"No! I won't calm down! I demand you take me to the hospital now, or if he dies I will have you charged for the murder of Inspector Abberline."

The man snorted. "Murder? I don't see how not taking someone somewhere could be classed as murder."

"It'll be your word against mine. And they will listen to me. A police sergeant wouldn't lie." He threatened.

The man looked at him in disbelief, letting his words sink in, before answering. "Fine. But I expect payment. Police sergeant or not, I can't be expected to run my horses into the ground for nothing."

Sighing in relief, he silently thanked god. "I'll pay extra for your haste."

The driver nodded. "Haste you will have, for the right price." He said, prepareing himself for bartering.

"Yes, yes. I'll pay whatever you ask. Please, just hurry." Peter said, as the driver jumped down from the driver's seat and opened the carriage door. Carefully, Peter climbed inside, tightly holding Fred against his chest.Sitting down on the padded bench seat, he sat Fred's limp form down beside him and pulled him against his side, so as he wouldn't end up on the carriage floor, letting his head fall back onto his shoulder.

"To the hospital then, Sir?" The driver asked politely.

Peter rolled his eyes. "Yes, for god's sake man. The bloody hospital!"

Seeing that the police sergeant wasn't in a mood to be trifled with, the driver nodded, closed the door and resumed his position on the drivers seat. Gathering up the reins, he flicked the whip at the horses' chestnut rumps, urging them forward into a brisk trot, then canter, into the darkness of the shadowy streets.


End file.
